


Turn my pages (and then kiss me)

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied Interalized Homophobia, M/M, a more wholesome ship for this fandom, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl and Ryan accidentally fall into a relationship. Like with most things, Carl is angry about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn my pages (and then kiss me)

**Author's Note:**

> I was tasked by Blackphoebee to write this pairing, and here it is. The other drummer boys need more love and the best way is to make them love each other, amiright????
> 
> title is dumb don't look at me

After Dunellen, Carl goes out with Connolly for drinks.

It’s mostly to commiserate with each other about the experience — they got caught up in a power struggle that wasn’t really about _them;_ they were pawns in the game between Fletcher and Neiman.

Honestly, Carl isn’t as angry about it, anymore. It’s beginning to feel more like he’s dodged a bullet by getting bumped down from core. That’s why he wasn’t eager to fill in after Neiman was dragged off the stage: Fletcher had stomped over to the drum section, glared at him and Connolly and said, “One of you better fucking plant your ass in front the kit and play or I will decapitate both of you with a cymbal.” After a quick glance to each other, Connolly had stumbled forward as the replacement drummer. He did well enough, and Carl turned his pages in between wiping his sweaty palms on his pants, and Fletcher had nothing to say to them after other than, “At least you got through the entire song” and then telling them that it didn’t matter which one became core, because they both were about as talented as a wet washcloth.

“What do you think will happen next?”

Carl looks across the table to Connolly — he’s wild-eyed and his hair is sticking up in places from where he’s wrung his hands through it, and his shirt is unbuttoned with his tie lose around his neck. He’s looking at Carl inquisitively, like he’s wanting for him to answer, yielding to the one who is more experienced. It’s nice to be appreciated, for the first time in months.

Carl’s mouth turns up into a grin.

“For now, Connolly, we continue getting fucking trashed,” Carl says, and he waves the bartender over for another round.

 

 

 

There are four things that Carl realizes when he wakes up:

1\. He has a massive hangover.  
2\. He is in a hotel room.  
3\. There is very warm body pressed up against his.  
4\. He _knows_ that head of red hair that is on the pillow next to his and—

“Fuck!” Carl yells, shoving Connolly awake. “Wake up!”

Connolly blinks awake, groans — he probably has as bad of a headache as he does — and then focuses on Carl. For a second he looks confused, but then realization dawns on him, and he covers his face with his hands.

“Dude,” Connolly says, “I’m not wearing any pants.” A few seconds later, Carl feels Connolly’s hand against his hip, Carl jolting at the feeling of his fingers brushing against his skin.

“Excuse you!”

“You aren’t wearing pants either!” Connolly says. “Oh my God, we fucked, that just wasn’t some weird dream—”

Carl closes his eyes, and tries to breathe steady to calm his nerves (it’s not working well). “You’re not making this any better,” he snaps, and then turns to look at Connolly. It’s hard to look at him while he’s looking at Carl so anxiously, eyebrows quirked together, mouth slightly parted, eyes bright and—

—suddenly the previous night comes back with a startling clarity. Carl hanging on Connolly in the bar, hands roaming down his side; him nuzzling against Connolly’s neck until Connolly turned his head and gave him a sloppy kiss; the two of them stumbling into a cab and stopping at the first hotel they could find; stripping each other of their black and white performance clothes; their mouths and hands on each other as they rutted against each other on the bed; Carl with his head between Connolly’s thighs as Connolly gripped at Carl’s hair; falling asleep against each other, exhausted and spent.

“This cannot happen again.” Carl says it slowly, succinct, so Connolly gets the seriousness of it. He feels Connolly twitch against him. “This was a mistake. We were wound up because of the clusterfuck of the performance, we were drunk, we— ”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” Carl can’t help but notice that Connolly sounds mildly disappointed.

“I’m not even, like, gay,” Carl says, and he feels his face flushing when he hears Connolly lightly scoff. “No matter what Fletcher calls me—”

“Seriously, Tanner. Just leave it be.”

 

 

 

Going back to Shaffer is a tense experience.

Practice is cancelled for a week, because apparently Neiman broke two of Fletcher’s ribs when he body slammed him on the floor. It’s a blessing for all, because it gives Fletcher time to cool off and hopefully, not unleash his entire wrath on the band.

It also means that Carl doesn’t have to see Connolly. He doesn’t have to see his horrid red hair or his stupid idiot smile or his perfectly toned arms or—

Carl sets out to hate Connolly.

Only, Carl can’t bring himself to hate him. He can’t even hate him when practice starts back up again and he gets named as core player instead of Carl. Connolly is too genuine and honest and too fucking _cute_ — there, he admitted it, he said it, he has a _crush_ and it’s sickening.

Goddamn.

“We cool?” Connolly asks him.

He’s smiling at Carl, a half-turned up grin that’s eager. Carl wants to put his mouth on his to smother it.

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

 

 

 

“How did this happen?” Carl throws his arm over his face. “ _Again?_ ”

“Well,” Connolly begins, “after practice you said that we were — and I quote — _fine_ , and then we went out for dinner and drinks and then you kissed me and then you _no homo_ -ed me and had a panic attack about it for twenty minutes until I kissed you back and brought you back to my place and then...well. Here we are in bed, together. Not wearing pants.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh.”

 

 

 

But the thing is, it keeps happening again, and again, each time Carl tries to stop it less, and somewhere along the way Connolly becomes _Ryan_ , and he likes him, he likes him a lot — he likes that he understands what it feels like for his hands to be fucked up and bloody, he likes that Ryan is patient, he likes that Ryan is a comfort and makes him feel safe to be himself.

He hates that he likes him so much.

“This is the last time,” Carl says, kissing a trail down Ryan’s thigh, and he gently pushes at his knees to spread his legs further apart, and then he slots himself between them. He sneaks a glance up Ryan’s body. “I’m serious, ginger-man.”

“You’re going to be serious with my dick in your mouth in a few moments,” Ryan mumbles, and then he thrusts his hips up, so that his erection rubs against Carl’s face, dragging a wet trail of precome down his cheek.

Carl scowls, and places a hand on Ryan’s hip, keeping him still. He thinks about saying something in return, something hurtful, something to wipe that indignant smirk off his face. But instead he wraps his hand around Ryan’s cock, giving it a few strokes before sliding his lips over the head and slowly sinking down and running his tongue along the underside. Ryan jerks his hips up once into his mouth, but then mutters, “Sorry,” and that’s probably what Carl likes most about Ryan — it’s a weird example, but he’s considerate and treats Carl well, and it makes Carl so _mad_ because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Despite that, he continues to work him, alternating firm sucks with licking the length of his cock and swirling his tongue around his head, until Connolly comes with a shout, and spills into Carl’s mouth. Carl makes a strangled groan, swallowing it all down, and continues to lick Ryan as he rides out his orgasm.

When Ryan has gathered enough of his senses, he reaches down and grabs at Carl’s arms, saying, “Come here,” and Carl lets himself be dragged up to him. Ryan turns Carl over so he’s on his back and then Connolly curls himself around him, nuzzling his face into the crook of Carl’s neck and then sucks at the place where his neck meets his shoulder.

“Carl,” he murmurs, as he wraps his hand around Carl’s achingly hard dick and starts to stoke him, “when are we going to be serious about this?”

Carl bites his lip, and arches into his touch. He won’t admit it, he won’t.

He can quit anytime.

 

 

 

Fletcher puts his fist through a wall.

The rumor travelling through the department is that Fletcher is going to be fired soon — the disciplinary trial is bringing to light some interesting things, to say the least. Logic would be that he would stop being an evil, abusive tyrant, but of course, he doesn’t. If anything, his fury has increased tenfold. Carl blames Neiman for all of it — even though Neiman is gone, his presence in the band is still felt, especially where it concerns Fletcher.

So, when the second chair trumpet player casually mentions, “I think we played it in F-sharp when Neiman was core,” Fletcher curses a string of expletives, and then turns around and punches a hole through the wood-paneled wall.

Nobody dares to speak.

Fletcher clenches his fist, takes a deep breath. With his other hand he points an accusatory finger in the direction of Carl and Ryan, and shouts, “Hear that, faggots? F-sharp it!”

Carl wants to die.

While they pack up after practice, Carl hisses to Ryan, “He _knows_ ,” and he glances over his shoulder to make sure Fletcher is out of the room before continuing. “He knows what we’re doing, he knows that we’ve been—“

Ryan silences him with a dismissive hand wave. “No he doesn’t, you know he insults everyone like that.” He shrugs. “And he’s too busy with his breakup with Neiman to notice.”

“But—”

“And besides,” Ryan says, looking up to Carl and tiling his head. “So what if he did know? Would that be the worst thing?”

Carl considers it for a moment. He imagines being judged and teased and ridiculed, and _yes_ , that would be the worst thing in the world, and he’s about to tell Ryan this, but then he looks to him and sees his smile and it’s so comforting and reassuring that he realizes that _no_ , it doesn’t matter, it would be okay.

“That’s what I thought,” Ryan says, and then he leans in towards Carl and cups the back of his neck to pull him closer so he can kiss him.

Carl’s eyes flutter shut — he’s vaguely aware that he’s kissing Ryan-fucking-Connolly in the middle of the studio band room, but he can’t bring himself to care.

One of the remaining band members in the room wolf-whistle at them, while another says, “I always knew you were a cock sucker.”

When Ryan flicks them off, Carl realizes that he might be falling in love with him, just a little bit.

 

 

 

“I have something to say,” Carl announces one night.

Ryan glances away from the television where Matt Murdock is kicking someone’s ass. “Sounds serious,” he says, half teasing him, but when he sees Carl’s strained expression he pauses the show and turns to face Carl. “What?”

Carl takes a deep breath. It’s been something that he’s been thinking for a while — it’s been growing inside, a confession building as he realizes more of who he wants to be, and not just what others expect of him.

“I don’t want to play the drums anymore.” It comes out as a rushed confession and he flushes and hangs his head down and the corners of his eyes sting because _damn it_ , he feels so foolish.

“Holy shit,” Ryan says. He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect you to say that!”

“What? What did you think I was going to say?” Carl asks and Ryan makes a motion that’s halfway between a shrug and slouch. “Never mind that,” Carl continues, because _this_ is more important now. “I’m not happy with it, I don’t think I have been for a while — and it doesn’t have anything to do with getting kicked out being core, well, it’s what made me realize that it was making me fucking miserable, and it’s not realistic for me. I dread going to practice. It’s just not fun, anymore.” He doesn’t add that the only reason he’s stuck with it this long is because of him.

“Carl, you’re a great player, and now that Fletch is gone you’ll have a chance to be core again.”

If it were anybody else, Carl would think that Ryan is pitying him and trying to make him feel better with lies, but Ryan is always honest — Carl swears that Ryan doesn’t have a deceitful bone in his body.

“I appreciate that,” Carl says. “But it’s what I want. I’m withdrawing from Shaffer tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Quit while I’m somewhat ahead.”

Ryan furrows his brows. “Oh. Well...of course, if that’s what you want.” He looks concerned.

Carl senses his worry, and it makes him smile because _what a dork_. He leans forward and pats Ryan’s knee, aiming for nonchalance but the smile on his face messes that up.

“I’m transferring to NYU for pre-med. So,” Carl says, pausing for dramatic effect, “I’ll be staying here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Ryan says, even though the relief on his face and the immediacy of his protest betrays him. However, he plays it off with a playful smirk and lays his head on Carl’s shoulder. “You’ve been saying you’d leave for ages, but you never do. So just admit it: you’re addicted to my pale, freckled, Irish ass.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“Ryan—” Carl begins, but Ryan cuts him off by pressing his mouth to his and wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Ryan says, and Carl believes him and for once, everything feels like it will be okay.

And he can always live vicariously through Ryan for drumming nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Coda:** and then they see Fletch and Andrew at some jazz club and they are like "HOLY FUCK we are lucky we didn't win the jazz war!" when they see the Jazz Monsters' weird relationship, and Fletcher is like "I didn't know about this?! That you two were dating?!" and Andrew is dying laughing and teasing Fletcher that he makes all his drummers gay. Then Ryan and Carl leave because they have a good life and will not be associated with that train-wreck and then they have a happy life; Carl becomes a doctor and Ryan teaches band at a community college, and they have three dogs. The end.
> 
> I was going to include that in the actual story but I decided that wanted to make it just about Ryan and Carl. And leave the other idiots behind. So, yeah.


End file.
